Penance
by Jaden Anderson
Summary: The templars have found them, Hawke and Anders. The battle goes poorly and in the attempt to bring justice to the apostate Anders, the Rite of Tranquility is performed on another. Anders' penance is delivered in a punishment harsher than he ever imagined.
1. Part 1

Title: Penance

Characters: Anders and Hawke.

Summary: The templars have found them, both Hawke and Anders. The battle goes poorly and in the attempt to bring justice down on the apostate Anders, the Rite of Tranquility is performed on another. Anders' penance is delivered in a punishment harsher than he ever imagined.

A/N: Alright, I know, I know, I know I have 2 other stories on the go, but this idea came to me today and it just _wouldn't_ let up. It kept _demanding_ that I drop EVERYTHING and get to work. So here it is! Only meant to be a 3 parter, plz enjoy :D and don't forget to let me know what you think! I do so hope everyone likes it, the images in my head certainly are awesome haha.

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**Part 1**

**Dragon Age 9:40**

It all happens so fast, in a blur of movement that clouds his vision until all that remains is a broad blade, dripping in crimson as it slides through Hawke's back.

He's seen swords pitted through chests before. _Maker_, he's done it himself once or twice when his magic's failed him. But never does he recall witnessing a blade so large split skin so easily. It's Anders that stumbles, forgetting in the terror of that moment that they are surrounded. That thick fringe of hair he loves so much, that mussed length that's _always_ hiding her eyes, slips forward when she looks down at the cold steel driven through her. The templars surrounding them fall into an equally distressing silence, as though they themselves are surprised at the outcome. A simple sigh, it's the only sound she makes, but _Maker_, it's so soft.

Hands grip at his shoulders and twist him into a harsh embrace. He struggles against them, his widened eyes refusing to turn away from the sight. His thoughts vanish and he waits for that moment of clarity when Justice sweeps over him, but he lies dormant, perhaps shocked into silence, just as Anders is.

He's spilled to the ground with a sharp kick that he hardly feels because at that moment Hawke's eyes shift to his - half veiled by fearful tears. Those nimble fingers - ones he's held close to his chest - rise to caress the blade. Her lips part in surprise and his name falls out in a rush of breath.

It isn't until the templar wrenches back on the blade, detracting it smoothly from the mess he's made of her chest, that Anders tries to surge up. His fingers are like claws, digging into the ground, tearing up the soil as he scrambles to throw clean the multiple hands grabbing at him. They're everywhere, in his hair, around his shoulders, his legs, even an armored knee lodged into the small of his back. His magic comes freely with the first call, only to have the templar pressed into his back rob him of all strength. Icy fingers rip into his insides, draining him of every last drop. Justice doesn't simply retreat, he vanishes and Anders howls his displeasure, his every muscle straining with effort as he twists beneath them.

Free of the blade holding her in place, Hawke stumbles - a tiny half step, her hands rising to cup her sternum as though that will help hold everything in. He waits for the moment her hands start to glow, just as he taught her. His fingers constrict against the soils, grass and dirt collecting beneath the nails of his white-knuckled digits. He waits. He _waits._

It doesn't come.

And with another simple sigh, she falls.

_Oh, Maker_, he can't breathe. His chest burns with the struggle, his body trembling with tension. _Get up, please get up_. Never has he seen Hawke fall in such a manner. Never has she _stayed_ down, always because he could heal her.

Her name spills from his lips in an anguished howl. The only consolation is that soon, the abhorrent darkness he feels surging within will be lost to tranquility - a punishment he _knows_ is coming.

-v-

_"You shouldn't be with me, love. You don't want all the ugliness I'm going to bring into your life."_

_Simple words, a warning most would say, yet he feels the weight of them as they leave his lips. And he means every single word. She doesn't understand what it is he brings. Destruction, chaos, pain... possibly even death. But she doesn't _see_ it, not like he does. _

_"Never," she growls playfully, those soft lips spreading in a teasing grin. _

_His warning goes unheeded, as does much of everything else he's ever told her. And he loves her all the more for it. How can he not? She's seen what he is - seen him at his worst. She's spoken with Justice in the fade, watched as he nearly struck down an innocent young girl who looked so much like Hawke. And now she's looking at his future - Larius - as he shambles through the prison, muttering incoherently under his breath to voices that only he can hear. Well, perhaps not only him. With every level they descend, the calling grows stronger and stronger, beckoning him to do things that he can't even think about. _

_His hand snatches at hers and he pulls her back from the group, ignoring the pointed stare of her brother. With a sigh, the young lad pushes forward, his disdain for Anders not entirely a secret. A quick glance and Varric does the same._

_"Listen to me," he pleads with her. His hand sweeps out. "This is all I have to offer you; the bloody Deep Roads or templars. You should-" he chokes with his next words, disbelieving that he is about to say them. But he _has_ to protect her, as best he can. Never would he forgive himself if something happened to her. "You should find someone else, love. Someone... someone who can care for you like you deserve."_

_That wretched smile again - nothing is ever taken seriously by her. Always laughing and teasing, always playing. It's one of the things that first called to him. So full of life, regardless of upbringing. _

_"Have you forgotten that I'm a mage?" she chastises him blithely, as though she cares not that they are surrounded by darkspawn infested roads. "Who brought whom down here," she laughs. "Must I remind you this demon, or darkspawn, or whatever this Corypheus is, is after me? So who's putting whom in danger? Looks like our roles are reversed," she chuckles, leaning forward until her breasts are pressed against his chest and she drags a finger down the bridge of his nose. She mock scowls, feigning gloominess. "You deserve better than me, Anders," her voice has deepened and he laughs at the expression on her face; one he's sure she's seen on his more than once. "I'm only going to bring madness into your life."_

_He stoops down and steals her lips before they can continue waggling, his arms looping around her waist as he snags her into his chest. She makes a small sound of surprise into his mouth before sinking into him, her fingers curling into his hair. Never has anyone ever made him laugh like she does, even though it's mainly at his own foolishness. Madness... that's one way of describing what she brings to his life. Absolute insanity is more fitting. It matters little how many times he's tried to convince her to move on, she always manages to lock him down further - the only one he's ever let _lock_ him up in any fashion. _

_He breaks from the kiss, his heart fluttering at the sight of her half lidded eyes and slightly swollen lips. _

_"How... how are my toes?" she whispers dramatically, so much so that Anders' gaze drops to the supple leather boots she always wears, covered in much and... other excrements, as it is. _

_"Your toes?" he repeats. Had he stepped on them? _

_When he glances back up, those lips have curled wickedly. "Because baby, you make them curl."_

_Anders groans, his head tipping back to stare at the stone ceiling hovering above them. If he could, he'd lock her away somewhere safe for the rest of her life, just to avoid ever hurting her. But he knows _- knows -_ it will happen. And that thought sobers him._

_This next kiss is much gentler, tender even, as he shows her all she means to him. Not many other women would accept him as he is - an apostate abomination with tainted blood. His fingers fall into the small of her back, lightly pressing her into him. _

_"Ugh," a darker voice growls. "Can we get on with it, please? Or would you prefer we set up camp here so you two can romp?"_

_A fizzle of anger sparks in Anders' gut but Hawke breaks away, laying her head against the swell of his chest. "Ooh, is that an option? I'm certainly up for door number two. How about you, Anders?" she questions lightly, tipping her face back to wink at him. "Are you... _up_, for the second option?"_

_Both men groan at the superbly horrible joke, though Anders' anger eases at her brother's obvious discomfort. How he loves this woman, no matter how desperately he wants her to find happiness elsewhere. Though, if he's to be honest with himself, he never wants her to look elsewhere._

-v-

Awareness slams into him.

He throws clean the remnants of that memory, for some reason his chest aches beneath it. In fact, every inch of him genuinely aches in some form or another. He can't even remember the darkness taking him. There's a fine haze surrounding his memories, but his throat burns and his head feels as though it weighs as much as a bronto. With his next breath, he sparks his magic, or rather, he intends to. Instead he's met with a cramping pain that doubles him over, burning away the fog.

His eyes snap open the exact moment his memories fall upon him.

"Hawke!" he shouts, searching through the darkness. He has absolutely no idea where he is, or even if Hawke is here with him and that frightens him more than anything. That blighted blade flashes behind his mind's eye and he cries out from the memory, desiring nothing more than to erase it from his sights. "_Maker_, Hawke! Where are you? _Hawke!_"

He can't turn his voice off. He scuffles across the chilled ground as best he can, learning rather quickly that his wrists are shackled. Something heavy lies against the manacles and he can feel the enchantment to them, draining his magic as it replenishes itself. Even Justice is held at bay. It's been so long since it's been only him in his thoughts, he finds it a bit startling. But less so than the silence that meets him.

_"Hawke!"_ he howls again, straining furiously against the bonds.

There's a lump across the room and if he squints just right, he can make out the fine outline of her armor. There's a bit of a relief to knowing she's here in the same room as him. But alive or not is the question he begs the Maker to answer.

To remain just out of reach, magicless, and bound, it's more than he can bear. His chest burns under the pressure of simply breathing. She _has_ to be alright.

"Please," he whimpers, drawing his knees up into his chest, the heavy manacles chiming as he lopes his arms around them and rests his head. "Please, Hawke. If you can hear, me, I need you to answer me... Hawke?"

He's still met with silence and for the first time in years, since the day he blew up the Chantry and thought she might just kill him, tears sting his eyes. Never in all his days did he think she would offer him retribution instead of persecution.

_"Marian_,_"_ he whimpers, ranking a crusty hand down his face.

A strange sound rises in the room they're being kept in, an almost _mmph_ that sparks his pulse.

He scrambles to his knees as quickly as he can, twisting against the bonds with the hope that maybe, just _maybe_, he can yank free. His gaze is all for that rounded lump he can barely make out and when it shifts, a jubilant cry falls from his lips.

"Anders?" Such a faint whisper, her voice edged with darkness, the kind that only comes when hovering near death.

His chest constricts from the sound, his fingers fisting against his thighs. He'd kill each and every one of those bastards that dared to harm a hair on her head.

"Hawke, talk to me," he pleads. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

There's a slight ruffling of material and he can hear her breathing increasing steadily as she feels around. "I'm alright." They both heave a sigh of relief. But as grateful as he is, he can't help but wonder _why_ she's alright. Why did the templars heal her? What exactly is their plan?

"Humph," she grumbles.

His eyes are growing accustomed to the dark and he can make out her face now, scowling in the distance. "What?" he asks, afraid that something might actually be wrong.

"Slap us in iron chains and they don't even bother to put us near each other to actually enjoy them," she actually complains.

He blinks, staring at her through the darkness. There are times where he wonders about her humor and this is certainly one of those moments. But he can't help let out a laugh - dog-tired and ragged, but a laugh nonetheless. Only his Hawke would think about how to best make use of such a situation. "Help me get us out of this, love, and I'll buy a set personally."

She makes a small noise, one of pleasure it sounds like before he hears her manacles scrape across the floor. Not seconds later, a wretched gasp fills the room and he grimaces. He didn't even think to warn her about the enchantment and his apology falls into the darkness.

"Let's make a bet, shall we?" she grins, shaking off the cramping pain he, himself, experienced. He may not be able to see it, but he certainly can hear it.

"A bet?" he laughs. "Hawke, I hardly doubt this is the time-"

"If I get out of the cuffs first, I get your coat."

He sputters, still staring at her across the room. "You want my jacket?"

The barest of movements, a shrug if he isn't mistaken. "Why not? I think it'll be quite fetching with the paldron of feather's I've been designing."

"...You've been designing a paldron of feathers?" When in the Maker's name did she find time for that? Always on the run as they are, sitting down to design clothing isn't exactly something they've managed to do.

"Duh," she sighs. "I've been on the run with the apostate mage that blew up the Chantry. I figured a uniform might actually be useful, so they can identify us."

The manacles shift against him as his fingers rise to pinch his brow. Now, he _knows_ she's just playing. "Sweetheart, if you find a way out of those cuffs before me, you can have anything of mine you want."

"_Anything?_" she muses, her playful chuckle sweeping across the room to him. He can't express how relieved he is to hear it. To see that blade slice cleanly through her chest, pitting her as though she was nothing more than an animal ready for slaughter... it's something he hopes _never _to see again.

"Anything," he promises in a dark voice, allowing the emotion he feels to enter it.

"Well, now. That might just be worth it. What do you get if you win?"

_You_, is all he wants to say. Instead he shrugs and glances down to his locks. "We'll figure something out, I'm sure."

It doesn't matter though, because neither of them are getting out of these locks, thick as they are. He doesn't even have a clue where to begin. There's a lock, clearly, but he can't use magic unless he can find a way to disarm the enchantment. He plays with the idea, attempting to rouse Justice, encourage him to do something about the enchantment that likely means little to a spirit of the fade. His thoughts remain silent though. Sighing, Anders drops his wrists down into his lap. They aren't Isabela or Varric, or Maker, even Sebastian. Neither of them knows the first thing about -

A soft hand brushes against his cheek, stunning him. He startles back, gaze shifting to find her standing above him, grinning broadly as she dangles the manacles over her shoulder. "Does this mean I win?"

"How in Andraste's knickers-"

"You know," she scoffs, flicking his nose gently. "If you're going to address anyone's knickers, it should be mine."

"Hawke!" he laughs. "How did you-"

"Isabela," she shrugs. "She was concerned that I'd wake up one day, chained down by some thugs, and thought I should know how to free myself. And _look!_ I'll have to let her know it came in handy."

Anders scrambles back to his knees and holds out his wrists, proffering them up. "Hurry, then we can find a way out of here."

"Honestly, Anders," she sighs mockingly. "If you don't like being shackled here, what makes you think you're going to like it when we're home?"

Her fingers drop down to the manacles, the pin that must have held her hair back fidgeting in the lock. His answer hovers on his lips but fall silent when the door suddenly rocks inward.

Her gasp is deafening and he feels her magic surround her. A blaze of light sparks from her fingers and pours out toward the barrage of templars swooping down on her. Swords are drawn and Anders chokes on his breath, afraid for a repeat of last time.

Energy encompasses the room and her magic is snuffed from her as quickly as it rises. She sighs and staggers under the force of it, weak lightning sparking from her fingers as she tries to call it to herself. The templar in front of her stalks forward and with a sneer strikes out.

Incensed words pour from Anders lips as she crumples, the hilt of the templars blade having struck her in the cheek. The templar grins - at him - before his leg snaps out, the toe of his steeled boots catching her in the side. He hears the crack of bone and sees red, straining furiously against the bonds that she hadn't managed to free him from.

The gauntlets come off and one of the templar fists his hand in her hair, yanking her to her feet as she chokes on her air, gasping for a full breath. "You're to come with us, magey," the templar snarls. "If you fight us, she dies. And this time, there won't be any healing."

Anders' chest hitches at the terrifying look on the templar's face. His weakness - they've found it. Though, he doubts it was all that difficult to find. The entire world knows about the Champion and the Apostate, not that it ever swayed her thoughts on the matter.

Another templar reaches behind him and twists a key in a separate lock, freeing him from the wall that held him. And like a dog, he's led by his chains behind them. Hawke is kept to the front, a silver-tipped dagger hovering near her throat.

He's only _barely_ able to contain his anger, desperation consuming him when he starts to feel a stirring of Justice with every step they take. The manacles might not allow them to cast magic, but Justice is beyond that. Though it does seem to have some effect, slow as he is to respond.

They're led up a rounded case of stairs, to where Anders has no idea. When it comes to templars, he's so used to waking in a cell, not what looks like an abandoned warehouse. A faint voice hums at the back of his mind, though the thoughts are not discernible. Anders only hopes Justice does not come forth. It might give a reason for the templars to simply kill them both right here. He offers those thoughts to the spirit within, hoping it is enough to calm him. Losing control at a moment like this is entirely too dangerous.

Hawke is forced to her knees first, her head bowed down, eyes still lidded. He hates to see her like this - beaten and injured. But he's given little time to inspect her as he's forced down next to her, his manacles wrenched painfully behind his back.

The door next to them opens and sunlight pours in, shimmering off the silver of a breastplate. The unfamiliar face is unimportant. What sets Anders' lips into a grim line is the sight of the eye inscribed into the armor. A seeker - likely the worst people to come across. It was only a year ago that news had spread of the Circles of Magi voting for independence of the Chantry. Regardless of what the mages think of him, Anders knows, he is the cause. It helps him find a form of peace with what he's done. But since then, Lord Seeker Lambert had put forward a nullification of the Neverran Accord. Templars and seekers no longer obey the Chantry. Anders maintains a steady stance in the face of such danger, but he knows where seekers are, death is sure to follow.

No words are spoken, the seeker simply gazes between the two of them, her lips curving happily, though not pleasantly. As for the templars, they remain impassive, or so it appears, blades clutched in their hands, prepared for whatever he or Hawke may have planned. For a moment, he wants to laugh. What in the Maker's name could he do, shackled as he is? Hawke is their only chance, her hands remain unbound. But her head still hangs forward, a curtain of hair hiding her face from him. It's only when he looks harder that he sees her swaying on her knees.

So concerned with her, he doesn't notice when the templars finally move. It's only the clang of their armor that drags his gaze back up to them. One crosses the room as another wrenches back on Anders' manacles, ensuring he can't move beyond a quick scrabble against the floor. The first - the one to deal her the blows - crouches before her, his gauntleted hand clasping her chin. He lifts her head, his other hand extended toward the seeker.

A shaft drops into the templars hand, and suddenly Anders realizes with a terrible conviction just _what_ is about to happen.

"_No!_" he shouts in a mangled voice, dripping with fear, but he can't move. He calls on Justice, begging and pleading with the spirit to respond to his pleas and he feels his response, though sluggish and laggard as though he can't _quite_ reach the surface.

"This one the Lord Seeker doesn't care about. Make her tranquil and be done with it. But the other," she turns to Anders, grinning horribly at the sight of him struggling piteously. "Is to be made an example of."

The templar's fingers are unrelenting even though Hawke squirms in his grip. Another templar descends upon her, the blunt end of the sword catching her against the back of her head. She spills to the ground, her eyes rolled back as her lashes flutter against her cheeks.

Anders can't even make out the words he's screaming at them, bucking and straining against the hold of the manacles. But the awkward angle of his arms locks him down.

When the templar's fingers frame her chin once more, Anders releases a desperate howl. He's met with a myriad of emotions - smiles, laughs, scoffs, all of which are deaf to him as he watches that lyrium brand lower achingly slow to her forehead.

He strives for leverage, twisting his shoulder sockets, throwing his body around until he feels the templar stumble. He latches onto that moment, wrenching on his arms until both tumble forward. The weight of the templar crushes Anders to the ground, driving his breath from his lips in a wash of air. The templar is forgotten at the sound of the softest cry. Anders' head rolls against the ground, his cheek scraping and splitting against the stone.

Hawke squirms in the templar's grasp, her arms pressed into the ground by another. And at the sight of the lyrium brand pressed to her flesh, a horrified sound crawls from Anders' lips. It's the sight of her struggling beneath the templar that finally rips Justice free of the enchantment holding back his magic. And Anders knows the moment he manages to break the bloody thing. The manacles crack open and fall away from his wrists with a clatter.

Magic surges through him, a sudden heat fermenting under his flesh. A bright wash of blue surrounds him and he thrusts it out, throwing the templar from him in a crash against the nearest wall.

Everything rushes by in a blur with Justice holding the reigns. Beneath the control of the spirit, all Anders sees are templars falling before him like waves. Screams, cries, men rampaging as they run in every direction, trying to gain freedom from the raving abomination about to rip their throats out.

When Justice finally falls dormant once more, Anders whips around to find Hawke leaning against a wall, her back flush against it as she stares at him. She's surrounded by bodies, their blood pooling in puddles near her boots. This used to be something that would disgust her, but she simply sits there, staring expectantly at him.

A whimper falls from his lips as he staggers toward her, his fingers hovering in the space between them. This... _can't_ be happening. Not minutes ago, she was laughing and teasing him, speaking of a feathered paldron. But now -

- he chokes on his air, collapsing to his knees at her feet, uncaring that the cooling blood seeps through his breeches. His beautiful Hawke. His funny, charming, witty Hawke, _a tranquil_.

"Hawke," he whispers, finally daring to brush the back of his hand against her cheek, tucking the stray strands of hair back behind her ear. He waits for the moment her head slants, pressing her cheek into the palm of his hand, but she doesn't move. She simply sits there, blinking, watching him.

Anders bows forward until his head touches her knees, his anguished cries lodging in his throat and sticking there. There are no hands falling against his head, no breathe upon his cheek like a perfumed air consoling him, no whispered words promising things that neither of them believe.

It's his worst nightmare come true, all because the templars and seekers were hunting _him_ for destroying the Chantry and starting a rebellion. He'd told her - he'd _told_ her! He'd warned her that he would bring her nothing but pain and heartache. Well, he was wrong, wasn't he. Now, he's brought her nothing but emptiness.


	2. Part 2

A/N: Thanks everyone! Here is part 2 - should only be one more part left! Lemme know what you think!

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**Part 2**

_"Psst," a hissed whisper._

_He pauses, his head shifting as he searches. Only there's no one here. They'd all split up awhile back, at Hawke's insistence. Something about covering more ground to find wyvern bait. _

_Turning, he peers into the trees, but all he sees are branches and leaves with grass that rises to his knees._

_"Psst," again, with that sound._

_Anders sighs, his hands falling on his hips as he waits. It better not be a new ghast hole. Or, Maker, another drake. Though, when has a dragon ever 'psst' him. _

_The branches crack above him and he looks up in time to watch as Hawke throws herself down the levels. Heart in his throat, he can only watch as she barely lands upon one branch before falling to the next, all the while, her hands clinging deftly to keep her from the ground. _

_She lands in the grass, her hands pressed against the trunk of the tree as she grins at him. How he loves that smile, especially when curled mischievously as it is now. It speaks loudly of the mood she's in; though, she's always mischievous in some fashion or another._

_"What?" she laughs. "I spend all that effort to get us alone and you're just going to stand there?"_

_He laughs, his hand pushing his loose hairs back from his face. "Hawke..." he groans._

_"Anders..." she mimics the desolate tone to his voice._

_"Do I really have to remind you that we're here for a reason?"_

_That blighted eyebrow perches wryly and her fingers fall to her armor, unclasping the straps so slowly. He swallows, a lump suddenly lodged in his throat that wasn't there before._

_"Do I really have to remind you that we're alone?" she murmurs, her leather breastplate vanishing into the tall grass. Her frilly undershirt follows in the armor's wake and she's suddenly bare to the waist, breasts gleaming in the soft bands of light that manage to penetrate the trees. Anders stumbles toward her, his fingers clenching at his side. "Do I really need to beg... Anders?" she asks in a voice more breathy than anything he's ever heard. "Because I will."_

_She rounds the trunk of the tree, vanishing from his sight. He steals another step toward her, his chin jerking back over his shoulder to ensure they really are alone. Justice rears through his mind but he dismisses him with hardly a thought._

_"Anders..." she calls._

_He turns back, watching with wide eyes as her lacy undergarments dangle from a dainty finger. She curves around the tree, ensuring to keep her body hidden from him, though those eyes watch him with a heat only he's ever been lucky enough to see. _

_His feet take him the last few steps and he rounds the tree to find his Hawke stark naked, peering up at him from beneath that thick fringe. Something in his chest constricts, his heart fluttering wildly. "Tallis and Varric..."_

_"Are not here," she whispers. "They're off somewhere else. But I'm here."_

_He nods mutely, his mouth still going dry at the sight of her, after all these years. So lithe and firm, so soft and pale. Even Justice falls quiet at the sight of her, standing before them. She drags her fingers across her collarbone, those lips curling suggestively. _

_"So I'm here," she whispers again, those fingers trailing south. "We're alone, out of Kirkwall, no templars... what are you going to do about it?" _

_He knows they should be dealing with the wyvern and Tallis, but Maker help him if he suddenly can't remember why. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, those rosy lips pursing as that hand reaches toward him. Eyes like crystal watch him, glinting with more than playfulness. Groaning, he drops down and claims her, his hands snagging her away from the tree and spilling her into the grasses. Her giggle is soft and commanding. She knows she's won. Like he ever stood a chance. _

"Hawke," he calls her name, praying for some form of emotion to slide behind those eyes.

He chokes on his air at that blighted memory. It's only one in a million boiling to the surface at a moment like this. The only other tranquil he's actually known was Karl and to this day, he still remembers the feel of his dagger sliding home through his gut. It had broken something in him to do that. To even _imagine _doing that to Hawke is more than he can bear.

He scrambles back from her, fingers tearing through his hair. This _can't _be happening. It just... _can't! _

He breaks beneath his own agony, magic pouring from his fingers in waves. Lightning streaks from his fingers, crackling through the air as he clutches at his head. He bows under the strength of his anger. Something boils within him, something stronger than anything he's ever felt and it bursts out in a pulse of magic that blows out the windows and doors to the warehouse in an explosion of glass shards.

_"Promise me, Anders," she whispers in a serious voice, for once. Gone is the teasing glint to her eyes, gone is the playful smile curling her lips, and in its place is stark fear. Something he's never witnessed with her before. He's seen her crippled under the weight of pain, he held her when she shook with the loss of her mother, seen her broken and injured as he's healed her. But never has he seen her frightened, not when Meredith threatened her, not even when dueling the Arishok. So brave, so strong._

_"Hawke," he whispers her name against her lips, striving to detract her from this uncomfortable line of conversation. Imagining anything beyond loving her is just painful._

_"Anders," she calls his name sharply and he startles back. She's never said his name like that before. It's not just his Marian staring up at him, it's a mage - one with the fear of ending up in such a fashion. How he craves to call that smile back to her face, make her forget about what they'd just seen. But she's adamant it seems, her fervor unbreakable over something such as this. His determined Hawke._

_"I promise," the words are like bile in his mouth. He's just promised to strike her down if ever made tranquil. And his fingers burn with the promise. How can she ask this of him?_

Because you're the only one that understands_, Justice informs him._ And you will hold to that promise, if I have to do it for you_._

_Anders swallows, hating the peaceful look that sweeps over her face. Doesn't either of them understand what she means to him? She's the only thing the Maker has ever seen fit to gift him with. He can't bear the thought of striking her down. _

Then we will protect her_, that voice in his head continues. _We will slay every last templar that attempts to do this. And she will be safe_. Yes, Anders can swear that, certainly. For once it's him that smiles, the thought of cutting down every last templar cause enough for such a thing. Now, that is a future he can envision._

He straightens, spent in the aftermath of that little outburst. Justice still lies dormant, having exhausted his reserves as well. He shifts, turning toward Hawke as she continues to sit in the puddles of blood, that blighted sunburst branded into her head. He remembers his promise. He remembers the bliss she'd shown him upon swearing such a thing. But... can he?

He and Justice had sworn to protect her from such a thing. Yet, he is the cause. He's struck down the templars that threatened her; their body's cooling on the ground as they speak. But they failed. All because of some foolish enchantment that held his magic at bay. All because he'd chosen to remain in that lousy town for longer than they should. All because he'd wanted, just once, to give her a life beyond running and templars. And look where it got them. It should have been him; a shocking thought if he's ever had one. There'd been a time when he'd feared nothing like he feared being made tranquil. Now he knows, this is his true fear - losing Hawke.

His hand slips into the back of his coat and he draws the dagger from the hidden pocket he'd stitched into it when he first purchased it. He'd promised.

His steps are clumsy as he stumbles toward her. The last thing he wants is to touch her. Not like this, not this as his last memory of his skin upon hers. Down below, her hand cupping his face and the flick of his nose, those are what he wants to take with him. He wants to remember her as the rosy cheeked woman that kept him guessing every step of the way. Not this shell of something that once was and no longer is.

But he offers his hand either way and without a pause, she slides hers within. His stomach flutters, but there's nothing to indicate hers does. He helps her up, her movements empty of her usual swagger. So automatic, as if it's simply a switch somewhere that they flicked off.

"Just close your eyes," he murmurs in a broken voice.

She complies so willingly, her head tipping back as though exposing her neck.

"Hawke," he laments. "What are you doing?"

Those eyes flick open, watching him. "We had an agreement," she speaks for the first time.

He wants to throw something, shatter more windows, and kill more templars for bringing this down on them both. It's a voice devoid of any tone, just words, falling from her lips as though she's discussing the weather instead of her death.

"I would prefer this end," she comments, still so calmly, that long neck stretching in a graceful line.

_His fingers encircle the pale line of neck, slowly backing her into the stone wall. She complies, though the entire time those lips flick smiles at him. His steps are careful, ensuring not to cause her further harm. She shouldn't offer such thing to him, he may just take it, as he's imagined for years. It's only the heavy handed wisdom of Justice that has kept him from her - speaking lines about mage freedom and how that is their only concern. His disapproval is palpable, like whitewaters rushing to the surface whenever she is within distance of him. But lately, Anders' needs have grown more demanding. And always she's there, with her tempting words. _

_Tonight, it'd been a simple matter of healing. She'd been injured in some scuffle on the surface, he hadn't even asked what happened. She'd entered his clinic so quietly, her boots hardly noticeable - a talent, seeing as the planks always groan beneath his steps. It'd been the creak of the cot settling under her weight that turned him. The flutter of his heart drowned out her words, speaking about some band of gangs... something about Hightown, he wasn't listening. His eyes landed on the bloody mess of her shoulder, nearly ripped clean from its socket and he shivered. _

_He's seen plenty of injuries in his days as a healer. Some, unfortunately, he'd been unable to heal. This would not cause him much trouble beyond the desperate rush of his blood, roaring through his ears at the thought of someone harming her. _

_She'd stood from the cot and stepped up so close, those eyes flicking up at him. Even now he can recall how hard it'd been to focus on her shoulder instead of how close she was pressed to him. He could feel the heat from her fingers right through his heavy sleeve, like fire. _

_Her chin rose, those lips calling to him, begging him to taste of her. He's always imagined her tasting of strawberries or something equally as sweet. _

_Justice rages in the background, naming her a distraction and ordering him to put her aside. They have their task and it does not involve her. But it's too late. Everywhere he goes, he sees her. Every thought he has, she is there. Every conversation, it is about her. Never in his days within the tower did he imagine such a thing. Freedom is all he cared about. And still does. But she offers a different kind of freedom. _

_He curves his hand over her shoulder and allows the warmth of his magic pulse into her. Those eyes flutter shut and for a moment, he feels adrift. His other hand creeps up her arm, fingers lightly pressed into her neck. A gentle touch but full of much more than simple friendship and healing._

_Her eyes open, that smile rising just for him. He's known since the day they met something was there. And when she first came to speak with him, her gentle flirtations only confirmed what he'd noticed. He'd put a stop to it immediately at Justice's command. Because the spirit was right. They had no time to waste on such a fling. But this is so much more than that. Three years, and all that time accomplished is a desire for her greater than anything he's ever felt. Just being in her presence strikes him mute. _

_His eyes drop from her face to that long, lean neck, and lower still. He's seen what lies beneath the armor - a result of healing. Her line of work is not one that keeps her safely behind locked doors. And most nights, he can't get the image of her unrobed out of his mind. _

_"We shouldn't," he whispers, his thumb stroking above the pulse leaping under her neck. _

_"Says who?" is all she asks, her fingers slowly climbing his side. _

_"If we do this, I may not be able to let you go."_

_That smile again as her shoulders meets the wall. Her fingers slide around his hips, drawing him against her. "Do you hear me complaining?"_

_No, but someone is. Anders begs Justice silently to stop. It's too late. There's no turning back, not with her in his arms like this. The spirit presses harder, telling him he can always walk away. But Anders shakes his head. You can only walk away if you want to. And he doesn't. _

He doesn't feel his steps carrying them back into the wall. He's only vaguely aware of his fingers pressed into her throat as he guides her steps with that simple lingering touch. Funny, the things one thinks about in moments such as these. Every moment he's ever spent with her is bubbling over - a dark form of torture dealt upon himself. And beneath it all is that foolish promise he made her. To end it, should she ever be made tranquil.

Her shoulders meld against the wall, those blank, emotionless eyes watching the entire time. He waits for the moment she stops him, waits for the fall of her hand against the hilt of the dagger that's nearing her. But it never comes.

He sighs and drops his head down onto her shoulder, his free hand pressed against the wall, holding his weight. He can't do this. Why does he even injure himself with such thoughts. Regardless of his promise, he cannot bury the dagger into Hawke's gut. Not like he had with Karl. Call it selfishness, call it witlessness, it doesn't matter. And realizing that, he _knows_ he cannot allow Justice forth once while in her presence. Because the spirit will succeed where Anders has failed.

"Hawke, I _can't_," he groans, his face shifting until the tip of his nose ghosts against her neck. He feels the familiar rise of emotion and arousal in the depth of his stomach and disgusted, he pushes away from her.

"It's alright, Anders," she states in that horrid monotonous voice that he's heard from the lips of all other tranquil, leaning against the wall.

"It's _not_ alright!" he rages. He made a promise and he _should_ keep to it, but the thought of sliding it through her, just as that templar had done, makes him sick. "I don't know what to do!"

"Perhaps you require help," she suggests and he bristles. _His_ Hawke would never suggest asking for help. She always had an answer, always knew just what to do to deal with situations such as these. Except, _his_ Hawke has been stolen from him, by this blighted brand! His leg snaps out and he punts the offensive shaft across the room, shattering it against the opposite wall.

"Let's go," he growls, stalking toward the door. There's no answer and he turns to find her watching him but in the same place he left her. "Hawke?" he questions.

She nods and crosses the length of the room to him. It's he that sighs when he turns and tosses open the door, holding it open for her.

-v-

He's never traveled with a tranquil before. And he's never given it any thought as to how awkward it might be. The blank stares, the monotonous voice, the utterly logical statements that are about to drive him absolutely insane. Mostly, she keeps to herself, always right next to him, speaking only when spoken to. He regrets asking once for her to smile and to placate him, he's sure, she does just that. Only, it's not _her _smile. No mischievousness is even present, it's simply a placid flick of her lips that she forcibly wears.

Upon leaving the warehouse they'd been brought to, he led her to where they'd been staying to pack a few things. Her suggestion of acquiring help seems logical - a word he will never look at the same way. And he knows exactly where to take her. But seeing her in that small little house they'd acquired, fingering the little trinkets mindlessly as she waited for him to do what he came to do, shatters his heart even more, if such a thing is even possible. More memories there that he doesn't want to think about, so he packed their things and led her away once more.

Nights are the worst. It's been years since he's slept alone. Since that day in the clinic when they _finally_ gave in to one another and every night after, they came to one another - be it in his clinic or her estate, it didn't matter. The first night she simply watched him set up the bedroll. It wasn't until his eyes rose that he realized he didn't _want_ to sleep next to her. With his nod, she took the cot and he retired against a tree, sitting upright against the bark. She questioned his purpose, stating that he would clearly be warmer if they shared blankets. He rejected the offer, knowing she did not even realize what she was asking. She bid him goodnight, utterly unemotional to the fact that he would not lay next to her. It's these little things that cause him the most distress.

As they walk, there's no light press of her fingers against his, no gentle touches, no sly glances, no jokes or teasing. Her face remains flat and detached from all that is going on in him, with impassive eyes. Worse, though, is even the lack of censure at his refusal to fulfill that promise. So many times he just wanted to stop and shake her about until something slipped in place, until she grew angry and shoved him away, anything - _anything_ - beyond the indifferent glances and uniform, toneless voice.

A week it takes them to reach their destination and Justice grows much more difficult to control. It's often his voice searing through Anders' thoughts, reminding him of his promise, trying to take control to fulfill it. He holds on only by a thin strand, _knowing_ that if he lets Justice do it, he'll want to follow in her wake.

_What are you doing? Why do you insist on holding her prisoner like this?_ Anders barely restrains a snort. As if he hasn't asked himself this question a dozen times already. She follows willingly. The tranquil are not slaves, they are capable of making decisions. If she chooses to follow him, who is he to decide otherwise?

_She follows because she has no objection to doing so. _Exactly, he retorts. If she has no objection then why should he?

_This is wrong. You swore you would see it through. _Anders ignores him. It's easy for the spirit to look upon these things objectively. He does not feel what Anders does for Hawke. He doesn't understand love and compassion. He is an entity of vengeance.

He feels the spirit's alarm at the thoughts he spews at them. Anders did not intend for Justice to hear them, but his control grows weaker and weaker with every passing moment.

For now, it's Kirkwall that takes shape before his eyes. Never did he think they'd return here. Not after… all he'd done. Not after all Hawke had to do to save the mages. Though in the end, it did not work. The circle here had fallen with the death of Orsino and Meredith. Not that it matters with the Circle of Magi having voted for independence.

There's a reason he chose to return here. And as he stares up into the Hanged Man, he wonders if Varric will even still be here. After all, it's been three years since that horrid day. _Why_ he's come here, he has no idea. It isn't as though the dwarf can help them in any fashion. But when Hawke suggested asking for assistance, his face was the first to enter his mind.

The door flies open and a pair of drunken men come stumbling out, gasping at the sight of Anders and Hawke so close. Their eyes rise to the sunburst baked into her brow and they swallow, shifting away.

It hurts his heart when he turns, his eyes falling upon that blighted brand once more. In the passing of the week, he's grown accustomed to seeing that hideous wash of gold burned into her flesh. Seeing the discomfort from the denizens brings it all back.

He rakes a hand down his newly bedraggled beard. After a week of travel and the situation he finds himself in, he cares less and less about his appearance. Of course, seeing Hawke's lack of interest to it doesn't help. Whenever his stubble grew half this length, she'd tease him and rub her cheek against it like a great cat. His mind clears of the memory to find those blank eyes once more watching him.

With a grievous sigh, his fingers plunge into their pack and he extracts a deeply indigo cloak, clasping it at the hollow of her throat. His eyes linger there, remembering a time he'd - _no,_ this won't help matters. Rounding behind her, he grasps her long hair and tucks it all under the hood, ensuring the heavy hem falls over her eyes to hide the brand.

She doesn't question him, not that he expects her to, but his words tumble awkwardly from his lips anyways. "To stop people from staring," he tells her. "They tend to grow uncomfortable in the presence of the… tranquil."

She forces that ghastly smile. "Does this help?"

He shakes his head, a half-laugh choking him as he reaches once more for the door. _Does this help? _No, no it most certainly does not. But he doesn't bother to explain, she wouldn't understand. "Stay behind me," is all he tells her.

The Hanged Man has not changed much in the three years. In fact, he sees some familiar faces. Apparently the world hanging on the brink of war between the templars and mages means little to those that are not involved. What he _didn't_ expect, is how _many_ familiar faces there would be. Oh Maker, they were going to have his head. He knew that they would return to their lives after he and Hawke decided to split away from them - for their protection. But never had he expected to find Varric, Aveline, Fenris, and worse, Carver, still sitting at the table where they all used to gather in the dark of night.

It's Carver that Anders stares at, still dressed to the nines in his templar armor. _Foolish_ - just plain foolish. He _never_ should have brought her here!

He turns, his hands fumbling at Hawke's side, about to direct her out the door when a name falls from her lips. Of course she wouldn't ignore them. She's tranquil, not dead. She says her brother's name and the entire table looks up, countless expressions twisting their faces.

"_By the Maker!_" Aveline gasps as she rises from her seat.

"Shit," the dwarf curses, pointing the entire table of their former companions up the stairs to where he likely still has a room. It's too late to leave. They would never let him. Aveline crosses the room, her city guard armor in desperate need of a shine, but Anders holds his tongue.

Her hands clasp at Hawke's lifting them from within the cloak. "Come," is all she mutters and begins to lead Hawke up the stairs.

Anders closes his eyes - he can't help it. His heart pounds furiously, guessing what all is to come from this foolish endeavor here. A thick haze of despair settles around him and he hangs his head. What he waits for, not even he knows. But it isn't until he hears - _Son of a blight wolf!_ - that he drags his feet toward the stairs. Sensing his desperation, Justice hovers on the edge, offering what little support the spirit can.

It's a silent breath he takes and finally, he crosses into the room. He doesn't expect it to come down on him so quickly. From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of a flying gauntlet. It's too bad there's a fist in there somewhere. The blow snaps his head to the side and Anders staggers into the wall, for once allowing a templar to manhandle him. His words crash around one another, making little sense. Not that it matters. Anders straightens, his hands remaining limp at his sides. It's his tongue that touches the dribble of blood escaping the gash splitting his lip, the bitter twang fitting to his mood. Hands curve over Carver's shoulders, but they aren't Hawke's. She simply stands at the back of the room, watching. And for an eternal stretch of time, they all stand in Varric's chambers, trapped with the truth of what's become of her.

Her hood has fallen back. Whether someone removed it or it simply fell away with her movements, he doesn't know. But when his gaze lands on that wretched brand, his stomach twists again, his face falling at the sight of it. With so many eyes watching him and the revelation of all that has happened weighing on his shoulders, the tears finally spring to his eyes.

With his back flat against the wall, he lowers bonelessly to the floor, his elbows resting within the inside of his knees. He lays his head within his palms and his shoulders sag, the silent tears coursing his cheeks, but hidden to their former companions. He failed her. It's that which truly haunts him. He and Justice had sworn to one another they would protect her, that they would slay every last bastard that tried to get their hands on her. And they had, they really had. But what consolation can he take from that? Regardless of the fact that those templars no longer walk within this world, Hawke is still tranquil.

"I _will_ kill you," the templar finally snarls from somewhere within the room.

Anders dares to lift his head, the bitter taste of his tears upon his lips. Never has he shown such weakness in front of others, but he just feels so… useless. Perhaps doing as he swore would have been better. Take her life and then his own. There is no doubt in his mind that's how it would end. He can't walk this world without her. Not after experiencing all it means to be with her. He feels Justice's horror, as though this realization is something the spirit never understood.

Carver hovers protectively over his sister, her shoulders cupped in his hands as he shifts her side to side.

"She's not injured," Anders murmurs in a hoarse and broken voice. "Just… just…"

"Tranquil," Carver growls. "Tell me what happened," he demands of Hawke.

"The templars found us," she explains. "We were taken to a warehouse where the Rite of Tranquility was performed on me. Anders and Justice escaped before the same could be done to him-"

"Convenient," Carver shouts, practically in her face.

Those empty eyes roll up to him. "I would prefer if you did not shout like that."

The room falls into a perplexed silence. Never have any of them heard her speak in such a fashion. She would have teased her brother for his outburst, slapped him gently, scoff under her breath, but those days are gone.

"There is no need for all this emotion," she continues. "I am perfectly well and content as I am."

Anders scrambles to his feet, his lips gaping at what she just said. "Hawke," he croaks, crossing the distance between them in a few steps. She isn't the only one to look at him. Carver turns and gives a solid shove, about to strike out at him again when Justice suddenly sweeps over him. His skin cracks and an azure haze pours forth, robbing him of all control in the span of a single breath.

_No!_ Anders tries to reign the spirit in, frightened of the upcoming outcome. But it's no longer him in control and the spirit steals the reigns, coming down on Carver with the force of an archdemon. It's Justice's hands that clutch into the lad's armor and tosses him from his sight before spinning in a tight circle, daring any to attack as the templar just had. From a veiled position, Anders watches them retreat, their hands held out in surrender. Horror slides through him, though, when the spirit turns to Hawke, his glowing hands falling onto her shoulders.

_Please, no!_ Anders shouts silently, pleading with the spirit not to do as it last swore it would. The breeze of the fade sweeps down and swirls through the room. Anders feels the spirit collecting his strength about him and he howls his displeasure at Justice.

"A-Anders?" a soft voice - a _familiar_ voice - one that drags him back to the front and crashing to his knees, the blue vanishing in a flickering fog.

"Hawke!" he shouts, staring up at her with his arms limp by his side. Justice retreats, his own confusion smothering Anders' thoughts. His relief is staggering and he nearly chokes on it as he stares up at her with blurred eyes. But the reprieve of pain is short lived once realization comes crashing down on him. He'd forgotten the effect Justice had on Karl, restoring him to his former self for but a few mere moments before he drifted away again.

She drops to her knees in front of him and collapses into his chest, her arms winding around him. The sudden assault of her tears startles him and he leans back, his thumbs rising to brush them away. Racked with sobs, she clings to him.

"_Hawke!"_

"_Please_," she begs as her cooled fingers curve around his neck, settling at his nape, before she begins to weep in earnest. "Don't let it happen again!"

"Marian," her brother groans from the floor across the room but she doesn't even look to him.

Her fingers curl into his hair and she directs his gaze down onto hers. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her words hitching wildly, her brows pinched together in utter fear. "I didn't mean to let them - Anders, please! Karl… he was right. No color, no taste… please! I'm so sorry! _So_ sorry!"

_She's _sorry? How can she sit before him, apologizing for something that is _his _fault? He should have fought harder to protect her, he should have never allowed himself to be with her. He should have struggled against this need he seems to possess to always have her with him.

He knows from their experience with his friend this will fade soon and his grief is inconsolable. His fingers dig into her back and he crushes her mouth with his. She kisses him with such passion, such fervor. His hand slides over her jaw, holding her still as he drinks from her, tasting the same strawberries that he had the very first time he kissed her.

Her lips still beneath his so quickly and he breaks away, that dreadfully impassive face staring up at him. He shouts his displeasure, rearing back from her, throwing anything he can get his hands on - the table, the chairs, even the dwarf's bookcase. When finally there's nothing left to destroy, he drops into a lump in the center of the floor and shakes with the tears Hawke can no longer cry.


	3. Part 3

A/N: And here is the final instalment! Yay! I feel it should be noted that there are spoilers in this chapter if anyone hasn't read Dragon Age: Asunder, or read up on it. If you haven't, well you're going to learn some interesting things haha.

Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing and subscribing! This story popped into my head one day and just wouldn't let up until it was written. I do hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think :)

* * *

**Part 3**

Warm fingers curl over his cheek.

He hums softly and presses into the hand, his beard catching against it. The scent of strawberries settles into his lungs and his stomach knots. It's a strange sensation, one he's never felt in Hawke's presence before.

His head _aches_ terribly, throbbing to the pulse of his heart, and for some reason he can't remember why. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Hawke last touched him and he uses it as an anchor to ease the rooted pain. His chest loosens and muscles that he doesn't realize are knotted slacken, drooping against the floor. He lets out a shuddering sigh and without thinking, he turns his lips into her palm, inhaling that blessed scent.

"Anders," his name, but said bluntly, without the usual smile he can hear in it.

The hand retracts, leaving a chill in its wake. His eyes snap open and he darts up from the floor in a rush, ignoring the exhaustion that racks his body. The previous week returns in a rush and he staggers into the wall, the truth of all that has happened staring him down. He would know the sounds of the Hanged Man anywhere - raucous laughter, clinking tankards, angered slurs, giggling women. Usually that would not be cause for concern, but his gaze falls on the cloaked woman standing in the center of the room, hands crossed before her waist, empty faced and calm. And from the thickset shadows of the hood burns a golden brand, that blighted sunburst piquing his pulse.

_Foul_ curses spill from his already scabbed lips and he turns away, his hand bracing himself against the wall. It's more than a struggle to reign in his emotions. A moment forgotten - a moment lost to that hand, that sinfully addictive touch that even now he longs to feel against his cheek once more. That simple touch has done more damage than any of the memories he's suffered under. His other hand tightens and he slams the clenched fist into the wall over and over, laughing wildly when his knuckles split. Dark blood wells to the surface, dribbling down the side of his hand and splashing onto the floor, now sprinkled in dust.

Spent, his head bows under the despair, his shoulders hunching with defeat. His voice is haggard when he speaks. "What do you want, Hawke?"

Never has he spoken so bluntly with her before and when he slants his chin back over his shoulder to look at her, she appears undisturbed by his little outburst. She simply stands there, waiting for the moment to pass.

"I was told to wake you," she states, no caution to her voice whatsoever.

His clenched fist holds against the wall, throbbing with more than just pain. "Why?"

She stares blankly. "I do not know. They asked me to come to you and I did."

He gives a watery chuckle and closes his eyes, his head tipping back. He lifts his pure hand to rub at his brow.

"It was no bother," she says. "You are more familiar than the others. I prefer to be here."

He blinks at the ceiling, positive he must have heard her wrong. But he knows he hasn't. The tranquil at the tower used to say similar things. Owain rarely left the stock room because it was the spot he'd chosen to attach himself to. They might not show emotion, but they can still make decisions. Apparently Hawke prefers to be around him. He should take comfort from this, but instead it only makes his heart leaden.

"You should not be so upset," she continues. "The shadows are merely shadows, now. It is not so painful."

"Hawke," he chokes. That isn't what she wept about the night before. She begged him to put an end to it. And he might have that time, if not for their companions staring at them in horror, faces twisted with disgust at the words she forced around her sobs.

He pushes away from the wall and crosses the length of the room in a single stride. "Tell me," he speaks. "What do you feel?" And he rests his hand against the brand. It stomach twists with sickness, loathing being so close to the seal of the Chantry, _knowing_ all they've taken from him. He'd once thought he would never be angrier with the templars than he was then, watching as they dealt abuses upon the mages that were unnecessary. He'd destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall because he believed it was the only way to begin the rebellion that all mages _knew_ was needed. And it had worked. But staring into her face, he feels a rage purer than anything he's ever felt. For this, he could kill the Lord Seeker himself and not bat an eye.

She continues to watch him, blinking beneath the woolen hood. "You are touching me."

His throat is so tight, he loathes the waxy feel of the brand against her skin. His throat convulses and he forces himself to swallow. "Is that all you feel? A hand upon your brow?"

"It is all it is," she states.

His hand drops away from her. "And that is why I am so upset." He turns, putting as much distance between them as needed to drown out that blighted scent. "Who asked you to come get me?"

"Carver and Varric."

_Wonderful_. "And the others?"

"They are there, waiting for us to return."

Only he doesn't desire that. There are many things he longs for. Peace, rest, _freedom_, but mostly, Hawke. His fingers clench with the thought of wrapping that blighted cloak around her and _running_. But that is exactly what led them into this mess to begin with. _His fault_.

He sweeps out of the room she came to, knowing they will be seated in Varric's chambers. He doesn't wait for Hawke or look to see if she follows. But he hears the patter of her feet against the dusty floor as she takes after him.

It isn't simply Aveline, Carver, Fenris, and Varric this time. Another shadow perches in the corner of the room. Short dark hair tucked behind tipped ears and the sacred ink of the Dalish mark her face. _Merril_. What purpose would they have for calling upon her?

Anders pauses in the doorjamb, Hawke's cloak fluttering about _his_ legs. The way they sit, encircled around the dwarf's table as though they've been conversing about this without him. It angers him, as does much of everything these days. Heat spreads through his stomach until his fingers spark with it, the wood of the doorjamb charring under his touch.

As one, they shift uncomfortably, their eyes sudden downcast toward the table or floor. All but Merril. She watches him with that confounded look she normally wore through their days of traveling together.

"What is _she_ doing here?" he growls. His dislike for the elf has not waned in the years apart.

"Why don't you sit down, Anders?" Varric says, gesturing to the two empty seats around the table. He finds no amusement in this and he lets Justice peek out through his eyes to inspect the room. Smoke rises from his eyes, mixing with the incense accumulating in the bowed rafters above their heads.

The spirit threads a cautionary warning and Anders agrees. Unsure as to why, he suddenly feels as though he is the prey. The way they watch him, eyes narrowed, hands clenched. He _knows_ they hold him responsible for this as does he. But like a pack of blight wolves watching a hare, their eyes track him as one.

He doesn't think - his hands simply grasp at Hawke behind him, his fingers fettered into her cloak, and he pulls her flush against his back. Whatever this is, he will not let them harm her.

"Please," Aveline attempts. "No harm will come to you or Hawke."

He glares at the guard captain, the smoke from his eyes thickening until his vision is nearly veiled by it.

_"Vishante kaffas_," Fenris snarls, pushing up from his seat. Those sharp gauntlets claw into the wood of the table. "Sit. We do not have all day."

"Hawke does not need to be here," he argues.

"She is my sister," Carver proclaims, as though none of them knew this to begin with. "You will not keep me from her."

Varric sighs. "Enough, _enough_. Blondie, take a seat. We are here to _help_ you, not harm you. After everything we've all been through, I would think we should all remember that?"

His beryl gaze sweeps over the room once more, cautious as he watches Merril slowly cross the room, her shimmering eyes gazing over his shoulder and into the hood of Hawke.

"_Lethallan_," she gasps, her fingers touching upon her lips when the sunburst comes into view. Anders may not like the elf, but he _knows _Merril would never do anything to bring harm upon Hawke. And so he steps away, his boots thumping against the planks as he starts for the seat.

The elf chokes out a gasp and Anders turns to find her fingers pushing back to the hood to reveal Hawke's face. Someone has taken the time to twist her hair back this morning, in a fashion Hawke would never do herself. The sight of the unfamiliar plaits tightens his throat.

It's Aveline he turns to, a blind rage sweeping over him like the fire that still sparks from his fingers. The guard at least has the intelligence to lower her eyes.

"Easy blondie," Varric breathes.

"Who would do such a thing?" the elf whines.

Anders can hear the tears in her voice and it softens something within him. He drops into the hard backed chair and leans into it, his hand raking down his face. "Why is she here?" he demands, jerking his chin back to Merril.

"Because she is Hawke's friend as well, or have you forgotten that?" Aveline demands. "We all want to see this problem resolved. You are not the only one in pain over this."

He snarls at the way she says _problem_, as though Hawke is simply a burden upon them now. But he bites back the venomous words rising to his lips.

Varric leans forward, his arms draped across the table. His eyes rise from the grained wood and meet Anders. Silence creeps among them one by one until finally, everyone present relaxes into the seats and waits. Clearly the others know what this is about and Anders finds his patience waning very thin, very quickly.

"How involved have you been in the rising conflict between the mages and templars?" Varric finally questions.

This catches Justice's attention as much as his and together, they lean forward in much the same fashion as the dwarf. "We'd been listening for any information there was to be had."

"You've heard then that the Circle of Magi has voted to separate from the Chantry?"

He nods, eyes narrowing as he wonders just what this has to do with anything.

"And I take it that means you know that the Nevarran Accord has been deemed null by the Lord Seeker?"

"Yes," he sighs. "Varric, what does -"

The dwarf holds up his hand. "This information has been circulated quite generously. I don't know of anyone who isn't speaking of such things these days. Are you aware that there are still some seekers that remain loyal to the Chantry?"

"Varric," Anders growls. "Can we get to the point, please?"

The dwarf settles back into his chair. "I've been keeping my ear to the ground, listening to all that is happening. Truth be told, I was hoping to hear something about you or Hawke. Just recently, I was interrogated by one of these seekers, quite intent on finding Hawke. They believe she is one of the few that can help put things back to the way they were."

"A lot of good that'll do," Carver grumbles in the back of the room. "The damage is done, Varric. There _is_ no going back."

"An argument for another time," Aveline speaks before nodding back to the dwarf.

"It was not that seeker that found us," Anders hedges a guess. "They specifically mentioned the Lord Seeker. Hawke meant nothing to them, a means to an end to-" his voice breaks and he struggles to clear his throat, swallowing past the burning lump. "She was simply... a tool to control me." The room falls silent once more. Anders continues. "The seeker specifically said _I_ was the one they were looking to make an example of."

Varric nods, his face slack as though this information does not come to a surprise. All their companions are aware of their feelings for one another. Very few took kindly to it, believing Hawke was asking for trouble, being with an apostate abomination as he is. Funny, how things work out in life. By coming back here, he's proved them all right. That little bit of knowledge chokes him.

"I went to my contacts last night," Varric continues. "And found quite the little tale circling."

Anders brows pinch with concern. "What tale?"

"One of the Warden's blight companions recently passed away, Wynne - I believe her name was."

Anders swallows. He'd met the mage in Amaranthine back in the day of traveling with the Hero.

"It appears she tangled quite closely with the Lord Seeker. The leader of the College of Enchanters, she led the vote for the mages to remain with the Chantry, arguing that magic _is_ dangerous."

Anders jaw tightens, his muscles leaping. How will mages ever find freedom when those with the gift continue to darken them. Varric waves off Anders' silent complaints.

"Long story short, there's whisper of a cure for tranquility."

Anders stills. In fact, the entire table does. Apparently this had not been discussed before he arrived. All eyes are on the dwarf. But Anders is convinced he's heard him wrong. Never has there ever been mentioned any form of a cure to being made tranquil. It is the reason mages fear it so, because once sundered from the fade there is no returning to it.

"What is it?" he demands harshly, his fingers tightening against the table until the wood groans. _A cure_. _Hawke_. For the first time in a long time he feels the stretch of something, twining through his stomach, mingled with fear and loss. _Hope_.

He rises from the chair, his thunderous steps leading him back to Hawke. Merril stumbles away from him, murmuring under her breath in quite the same manner as the others. He stares into her face, into those eyes that shine even in the dim lighting of Varric's room. A cure. Unimaginable. Why has this never been spoken of before? She peers up at him from under the thick fringe of her lashes, simply waiting. After a week of this, the thought of being able to reach out and touch his Hawke is almost more than he can bear.

"Anders," Varric tells him. "This will not be easy."

_"I don't care!"_ he hisses, his fingers touching lightly upon her cheek, finally allowing himself the libation of touching her. There's no change to her face, she simply stands there and lets him touch her. He couldn't before, but _now_, now hearing that something can be done - his heart threads anxiously.

"You might when you hear what the cure is," he sighs.

Anders casts a dark glance over his shoulder, watching as the dwarf threads his fingers over his chest.

When he nods, Carver steps forward. "We received this letter not months ago, written by this very mage herself. It details how a friend of hers - tranquil - was commissioned by Divine Justinia V to investigate the nature of the Rite. Apparently the Divine is searching for alternatives to remove the magic from the mages without the side effects that we are witnessing right now."

Stunned, Anders' lips gape. His throat works but no sound comes out. He had no idea the Divine had been looking into such things. Never did he give any thought to such a thing. He always assumed the Chantry wished to see all mages on leashes. "Just_ tell_ me," he begs. "Tell me the details later. Right now, I just need to know how to fix this."

The room falls into another silence and Anders nearly howls at them, tempted to shake them about until the words spill from their lips. This hesitation they show him, this suspense, it's too much and he gives Hawke his back, staring each and every one of them down until someone speaks.

"The touch of a demon or spirit," Varric finally tells him. "We saw the truth in this last night. Hawke found her way back to us when Justice was present."

His heart plummets into his stomach, frustration welling to the surface like blood. _This_ is their solution? "It does not last," he snarls, his shoulders tightening. They mean to tease him with this unreachable possibility. "You suggest that I allow Justice free every moment of the day so that Hawke will not remain tranquil."

The thought settles and he finds something in it. He may never be the one to touch her again, but she would be Hawke again, _pure_ and _whole_.

"No," Varric says. "This mage's tranquility was reversed completely by allowing a demon - or spirit, apparently it doesn't matter - to touch his mind. Somehow, it is possible to reverse the Rite by having a demon or spirit touch the mind of a tranquil. This touch restored the connection torn from him and he was himself again."

It isn't only Anders that hisses. For a long moment, he stands there, unmoving. He feels that silken thread of hope slip through his fingers, bleeding away. Hate surges within him with those words. "_No_."

"Anders-"

"_No!"_ he bellows. For a demon to touch the mind of someone, it ends in possession. Merrill is one of the few mages, in fact the only, he knows to have been touched by a demon and not end as an abomination. And never would he see Hawke become an abomination. "You do not understand what you are asking. You do not understand the risks. She will be possessed. You do not live as an abomination."

"My sister-"

"Would _never_ want such a thing!" Anders shouts, his fingers tearing at his hair. This is... this is _madness_. No, no, no, just _no. _

"Can you honestly leave her like this?" Aveline asks.

Anders spins in a small circle, meeting their crowd of eyes all waiting on him. This... can't be happening. Hawke's friends would never ask that they risk putting a demon in her. It's a joke, it must be. He laughs wildly, his head shaking, hair spilling about his face. A joke.

"It doesn't matter," he shrugs. "She is cut off from the fade. The point of tranquility is to sunder the mage from it. They become immune to the threat of demons. How in the Maker could we even get a demon to touch her mind, unless-" he breaks off, his eyes widening in horror. "Oh, _Maker_." This just became so much worse. "You are suggesting I lure a demon through the veil to _this_ plane and allow it to _physically _possess her?"

"The notes in this letter clearly state that this mage was cured before the possession occurred. The demon was lured from the fade to cross the veil. The moment it touched this mage, he was cured. There is a chance possession won't happen "

"And there is a chance _it will!_" Anders raves.

"You can enter the fade after and slay the creature, in that case, can you not?" Fenris questions.

Anders' eyes widen. The _elf_, the one that ranted and raved about demons and abominations thinks this is a good idea? "Have you all lost your minds?" he whispers, desolate. "I don't have the levels of lyrium required to do such a thing."

"But you have me," Merril finally whispers, detracting the attention back to herself.

Anders swallows and turns to find the mage staring meekly up at him. _Blood magic_. When did things go so wrong? He brought Hawke here for help and this is the solution they offer him? To risk a demon having her, then use blood magic to enter the fade. "This is... out of the question," he laughs hysterically. "That spell requires a life! Someone would have to die for that level of power."

"No," Merrill interrupts. "When we were sent into the fade to help Feynriel, the Keeper did it without lyrium or blood magic."

He frowns and steps closer to the elf. "And you believe you can do this ritual?" his voice is much deeper than he expects.

"Yes," is all she say, those eyes shimmering.

"Are we all forgetting about Justice?" Carver demands. "Why must it be a demon? Why can it not be a spirit? Or Justice for that matter. Can't Anders' spirit cross into her?"

Anders' shoulders round and he backs away from Merrill. "I don't think such a thing is possible. I-I don't know how, not with Hawke cut off as she is. As for another spirit, that requires a spirit medium and neither Merrill nor I are one."

And neither does Justice, if Anders reads his confusion correctly. When he'd first taken Justice into himself, both had been willing. Anders had done it in service of a friend. He'd offered compassion to the spirit. It is something that Hawke is incapable of currently. And Anders is quite certain that is important. A demon, however, takes what it wants. It would enter her with little thought beyond surviving to walk this realm.

"You're all serious about this?" he whispers, his voice broken.

Their silence is his answer. After years of listening to them all preach about abominations and the how dangerous mages are, they all want him to risk placing a demon in Hawke and then have him enter the fade to kill it, if it should happen.

He crosses to the corner of the room and stares, arms crossed over his chest to hide their shaking at the thought of deliberately allowing a demon to touch her. They are tempting fate once more with the possibility of her ending as an abomination. What if the ritual Merrill speaks of fails? And then she won't simply be tranquil, but dead as well. He shifts his weight and watches her. What would he give to see Hawke whole again? _Anything_. If it ends in death, it just means he'll finally have kept his promise to her.

Anders nods, once, a sharp jerk. _So be it_.

"Where?" Merrill whispers.

"Demons hover in places where the veil is thin," he informs them in a haggard voice. "I-I think for this, the Bone Pit is the best solution."

-v-

_The Bone Pit_. How he loathes this place. Never did he think he'd be dragged back here again. In the three years, _nothing _has changed. In fact, in that span of time, he's fairly confident more skeletal remains have collected. He leads the ground, toeing over the bleached bone with little pause.

And upon entering where the miners used to make camp, he feels the remaining shreds of the veil. The veil is not something he can simply reach out and pluck at, it has no physical manifestation. It's simply a word used by the non-magical to explain the barrier between the two different realities. Theirs and the fade. To be able to see it, one simply needs to open their eyes and look.

Anders does just that. He releases Hawke's hand and it falls away from his without linger. A single glance given over his shoulders forces their companions back toward the entry of the mine. They must not be nearby. Not if the demon is to focus on Hawke. He took the time to explain everything that he requires of her along the way and with every comment, she gave a slow nod, listening and absorbing his words.

He crosses toward the cliff where they once found a journal entry about a massacre and presses his fingers against his eyes. When they slide away and he looks again, things appear different. Above him, the air shimmers, bending to the will of the creatures hovering in the abyss.

A steadying breath, he gulps it down, hoping it is enough to give him courage for what he is about to do. Demons respond to death and magic. Hawke cannot cast the magic required to call to them, but he can. His magic pulses about him in waves, thickening the air and shifting the shimmer above him to a deep violet. His hands lift from his sides, livid winds howling around him as he conjures. It does not take long for the fade to tear - as if an invisible window has been suddenly thrown open, and a foul wind, brackish and cutting, now blows in.

His eyes rise above him to watch as the air shifts, a clawed hand digging into the protective barrier of their world, ripping away at the veil until it can slide bodily into their world. Anders blanches at the sight of the desire demon lowering to the ground, the flames curling around her horns flickering the moment her feet touch upon the tainted ground.

"_Well, well,_" a sinful voice, smooth and insidious. "Whatever do we have here? It isn't often we are called from the fade so willingly."

From this point onward, everything is guesswork, and Anders dislikes the thought. This isn't some game they are playing, it is Hawke's life. But as they agreed, he retreats, giving the creature privacy.

"Demon," Hawke states, drawing the attention of the demon as Anders asked her. Demons are not impressed with the tranquil. They desire to live and the tranquil cannot offer them that. She would have to goad the beast, or so Anders had assumed.

The demon's slitted eyes cross the distance, narrowing on Hawke, standing before her like nothing more than a sacrifice. Anders' fists curl one finger at a time. Fear coats the back of his tongue. They don't understand, none of them do. They speak how the demon only needs to touch her mind, but they don't know what that means. It means letting the demon within. It means allowing them to converse with one another. It means allowing the demon to tempt and sway Hawke. As a tranquil, this would not be an issue, they do not have desires. But if Varric's notes are correct, the first moment the demon touches her, her mind will restore itself. And then it's up to Hawke to fight. Easier said than done when the demon is already there, planting images with the intent to confuse and tempt. He and Merrill spoke in great lengths of this ritual and he dares a glance back to find her already preparing. Both know the risk they are taking.

The demon remains silent, those slitted eyes staring at Hawke. Her jaw tightens, the muscles leaping from the tension. It's more than he's seen from her since that blighted warehouse. His heart stops dead. He sucks in another deep breath, the icy fist clutching at his heart holding tightly. Even from here he sees the fine tremble and he nearly cries with relief! But it isn't the only thing to steal his breath. The sunburst fades and he's lost to the sight of the brand vanishing, as though it was never there in the first place. His knees buckle but he can't - not yet. No matter how much he desires to sweep her away, the demon still holds her.

A faint whimper, but it falls from _Hawke's_ lips. Never has he heard something so beautiful - tortured as it is.

Anders lifts his staff, the signal for their companions to know it is done. His magic collects around him in a swirl of fury and he brings it down, releasing every bit of strength. It's staggering how much he finds within- how much the image of Hawke whole again inspires him to find more. Even Justice falls away, shocked at the fervor in which he attacks the demon.

Their companions launch themselves forward, but with a shimmer of will, Anders' eyes rise to find more than one demon tearing clear of the veil. He curses violently, barking orders at them, directing them toward the bones now collecting. Skeletons rise, shambling as they find their strength. It's never as easy as they think it will be. Anders continues to focus his magic on the desire demon, knowing her to be the real threat. His staff slams against the earth and it begins to sway under them, rubble and boulders launching at the creature.

Finally those slitted eyes fall to him and he watches as Hawke crumples against the rocking earth. She pants for air, eyes wide and wild, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She lifts her head, her half-veiled eyes meeting his and a startled laugh spills forth. But Anders isn't given the opportunity to run to her. Not when a hissed whisper slides through his thoughts.

_Come to me and I will give you all you desire_.

All he desires is Hawke and she sits right there, clutching at her head. He steals another step toward the demon, and another, flame and ice striking her.

_You can have more. Freedom for the mages, a life with her. This I will give you._

His attacks ebb the closer he gets to her, his staff now falling quiet in his hands. Those blackened lips curl, her sharpened teeth glinting in the mid afternoon sun. She thinks she's won. And that's when he allows Justice to take over. From all the spirit has taught him, demons and spirits inherently do not like one another. His aura of power ruptures in a swell of azure, his staff gleaming with the strength of the fade.

The demon's confident demeanor vanishes in the wake of the spirit. She hunches down low, those fiery eyes burning with more than rage, and bares her teeth in a vicious hiss. "_You do not belong here!_" she howls at Justice.

His hand rises and ensnares the creature in a threatening hold, lifting it high into the air. She struggles within his grasp, her clawed hands raking down his face, and begins to scream.

_"It is you that does not belong here, demon," _his voice, but Justice's words.

A wash of transparent light forms under his hand, spreading until it consumes the entire length of her body. It flickers as she shrieks, but she continues to burn within his grasp, until even Anders is blinded by the light. Though he cannot see, he feels Justice moving about, magic coursing from his fingers as he seals the veil. It was something they'd discussed on the way up. When it finally does dim and he can see once more, Justice has retreated and it's simply Anders standing on the edge of the cliff, the demon gone.

_Hawke_.

He rounds, his jacket whipping against his thighs. She's exactly where he last saw her, in a lump of armor, sobbing openly into her hands. He wants to take her into his arms, but at the sound of steel clashing, he realizes their companions are still battling, though few skeletons remain. One nears Hawke and Anders launches into motion, the sharpened end of his staff impaling the creature through it's nonexistent chest. He yanks it free and swings it in an arc, knocking its skull clean.

The world fades and all he sees is Hawke - all he hears are her cries. Forgetting the others, knowing they can handle anything, his knees crash into the earth before her. His fingers slowly graze against hers, lowering them down from her face. When her chin tips up to him, he draws in a long, jagged breath. How beautiful she is, regardless of the tear stained cheeks and rimmed eyes. He waits with bated breath for the moment she retreats again, the touch not enough, but after a long moment staring into one another's eyes, she bursts into laughter, her arms now thrown around his neck. Anders staggers under the sudden assault but he finds his balance, his own arms clinging to her. His hands twine through her hair, untwisting those hideous plaits as he holds her against him, blessed prayers falling from his lips.

"_Hawke_," he chokes out her name as though he needs it to breathe.

He's aware of their companions surrounding them, their own chuckles falling from above.

Her fingers curl into his jacket and she rises up until those eyes are all he can see. "I can't believe -" she stutters, her sweet breath ghosting over his lips. "I'm actually back!" That thick fringe slips over her eyes but she continues to peer up at him from the heavy bang, laughing wildly.

His hands snag her head and he slants his mouth down over hers, tasting deeply of those strawberries that for a week have been torturing him. _There it is_, that soft little sound she makes into his mouth, surprise and pleasure. He's spilled to the ground with the lithe weight of Hawke riding him down, his eyes fluttering widely even as he continues to drink from that warmth only she gives him.

She breaks away from the kiss, her tears slipping onto his cheeks. Still shaking terribly, his hands smooth the loose strands of wavy hair back from her face, tucking them behind her ear. And he's rewarded with the soft press of her face molding to his palm, her eyes fluttering shut as a simple sigh falls from her swollen lips.

"There you are," he whispers, rising partly from the ground to steal another kiss. "I found you."

When that mischievous smirk steals her mouth, he nearly groans. How he missed that playful grin. "I'll hide harder next time."

He growls against her mouth, his hands snaking around her back. "_Next time?_"

Though there are still tears in her eyes and her fingers continue to tremble, she jokes. Some things never change. "Just think of it as hide and seek."

"Hawke," he sighs, pressing his cheek against hers.

He feels those grinning lips press against his ear. "Get me out of here before our friends see more of us then they ever wanted."


End file.
